


Sometimes I feel like throwing my hands up in the air

by SecondStarOnTheLeft



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Winter Olympics, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:12:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondStarOnTheLeft/pseuds/SecondStarOnTheLeft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once the rest of the world has fucked off out of Winterfell and the twenty-third Winter Olympiad has been declared a raging sucess (because Winterfell is the spiritual home of the winter games and everyone knows it), there's a victory tour. Every medal winner from Team North travels around the whole country, standing for photo ops and shaking hands and kissing babies.</p>
<p>It's boring after a while, but there are perks - like being in close quarters with Smalljon for two months, give or take, without the threat of Mum and Dad "popping in".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes I feel like throwing my hands up in the air

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theMightyPen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/gifts).



She can hear them over the announcer and the music,  _Winterfell! Winterfell! Winterfell!_ , and she feels giddy and isn't entirely sure she can keep her balance - she feels kind of drunk, on excitement and  _that_ score and the light reflecting onto Donella Hornwood's face as she came forward with the medal on its bright ice-blue ribbon to match the ice-blue winter roses and the ice-blue spandex of Sansa's costume and the ice-blue of her eyes and she could scream, she could, but instead she bends forward with a smile and bows her head to accept her first ever Olympic gold medal.

Wylla's hand is freezing but Sansa doesn't care, because her training partner, best friend, competitor and countrywoman, the woman from whom she's taking the top spot on the podium, she's smiling up at Sansa, her silver medal bright against her uncharacteristically dark costume, and her smile is all mischief.

"The whole hockey team is in the stands," she says, just loud enough that Sansa can hear her over the cheering and the bellows of  _WIN-TER-FELL! WIN-TER-FELL!_ "You scored highest today, Starkling - gonna score highest again tonight?"

Smalljon gives her a double thumbs up when she glances over again, and she's  _really_ glad of how thick her make up is, because otherwise she'd be bright red in all the photos.

 

* * *

 

Once the rest of the world has fucked off out of Winterfell and the twenty-third Winter Olympiad has been declared a raging sucess (because Winterfell is the spiritual home of the winter games and everyone knows it), there's a victory tour. Every medal winner from Team North travels around the whole country, standing for photo ops and shaking hands and kissing babies.

It's boring after a while, but there are perks - like being in close quarters with Smalljon for two months, give or take, without the threat of Mum and Dad "popping in".

The start of the tour is  _crazy -_ they begin with the open-top bus through the streets of Winterfell itself (and they're going to end in White Harbour, as far as Sansa knows), and Sansa's pretty sure at least nearly six people, including Harry Karstark, almost end up  _under_ the bus.

Which is kind of impressive, considering Harry's part of the gold-medal winning hockey team and was on the top deck with the team and the rest of the medalists. But whatever, he's Harry, she gave up asking years ago.

From Winterfell they turn north towards Last Heart, up along the Kingsroad, which means long uninterrupted stretches of leaning against Smalljon on the tour bus while she reads fantasy novels and he reads detective novels. It also means being able to steal his huge white team jacket when they stop and it's snowing, with  _Umber 12_ in huge grey letters on the back.

She likes showing off that it's hers to wear. She likes showing off that  _he's_  hers, and he never seems to mind, really.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes she takes her medal out of its case in her case, and just looks at it. She never expected gold at her first games, and she can't quite shake the belief that the judges only scored her higher than they did Wylla because they don't  _like_ Wylla, because she's a bit... Wild, whereas Sansa's as traditional as they come, right down to her white skates instead of the flesh-colour most people wear now.

Then she remembers that Wylla would slap her over the head for thinking that, and she puts her medal away safely and sneaks down the hallway to Smalljon's room, making sure not to wake up her idiot brother and not-quite-so-idiot cousin.

 

* * *

 

Everything was roses (blue ones, mostly, because people seemed to produce bouquets of them for Sansa and Wylla and the Mormonts and all the other female athletes everyone they went) until they hit Barrowton, and Mayor Barbrey Ryswell-Dustin remembered that she actually hates all Starks, and because there are three Starks (Jon totally counts no matter what his asshole dad says) on Team North, well...

She's not exactly pleasant. She's not unpleasant, not really, but she's kind of off or awkward or something. 

Which of course means that they party all the harder that night. They've got three days in Barrowton, including the day of their arrival, which is  _ample_ recovery time before they have to get back on the bus.

 

* * *

 

Sansa stands against the doorframe and watches Smalljon wake up. It takes about ten minutes in total, because he starts off stretching like a cat, and then he rolls around a lot, and then he groans and huffs a bit and puts the pillows over his head.

"Hey, champ," she calls softly. "I think there's something worth waking up for this morning."

She laughs when he bolts upright, but she moves across to the bed quickly, the better to take advantage of his current... Excitement.

"You're wearing my jersey," he chokes out when she sits across his thighs, looping her arms around his neck and tossing back her hair. "My jersey that I won my gold in."

"Yep," she agrees easily, not bothering to adjust anything when his beloved jersey slips off her shoulder to reveal the strap of her bra. It's blue, his favourite colour on her, and now that he's looking more carefully she's sure he can see the outline of it through the ice-white of his jersey. "Wanna make something of it, Umber?"

"I might, Skates," he challenges, his hands massive and almost-hot on her thighs, behind her knees. He tugs her closer and she laughs, because he's the easiest person in the world to laugh with and she's nineteen and she's an Olympic gold medalist and officially the best figure skater in the world and she loves him, just a bit. 

"Try it," she teases, leaning in and kissing him hard enough to put him off balance. He goes easily when she pushes him down flat, even folding his arms behind his head so she can't get her fingers into his hair the way she likes.

"Do your worst, Skates," he says easily, arching his back under her to unbalance her. "I'm all about a fight."

"Don't I know it," she mocks, teeth scraping over his throat and making him hiss and gasp. "But I also know  _all_ your weaknesses, little man."

"Nothing  _little_ about me," he teases, rolling her so suddenly it knocks her breath out of her. She loves this, when he's holding himself over her, because he's massive and warm and she feels so safe and so totally adored when they're together like this, and nothing else in the world seems to matter. It's good, it's  _wonderful,_ and his morning breath isn't as bad as it could be, really, although that might be because her own is probably pretty ferocious.

His beard is scratchy and soft when he kisses her, and she likes that, too, because it kind of tickles when he nuzzles into her neck and she loves laughing with him, she really does.

"Insanely hot though seeing you in my jersey is - and it  _is,_ I swear - I'd kind of like to see what's underneath," he says right against her ear. "If you don't mind, that is."

She doesn't mind at all, because she bought this underwear  _ages_ ago, on one of those shopping trips Jeyne loves to bring her on for downtime reasons, and she pretty much bought it with the express intention of having Smalljon take it off her.

He rolls off her and pulls her over into his lap, folding his arms behind his head again and nodding for her to get on with it.

"Keep the jersey," he suggests as she crosses her arms to the hem and peels it slowly up her body and over her head. "Shit, Skates, that is  _so_ hot."

His fingers skim over her skin, big and gentle and warm, and she sighs into his touch.  _I love you_ hangs on the tip of her tongue, but she doesn't want to risk spoiling the mood by making things intense, so instead she sighs and sinks her nails into his chest.

He growls, and suddenly she's on her back and her knickers are halfways down her legs.

" _So_ hot, Skates," he groans, and she starts to laugh because she hears her knickers tear before he even realises he's ripped them, and then he goes pink and kisses her hard to shut her up. 

They've only been together about eighteen months - he refused to come near her before she turned eighteen, and they were together about six months before he'd go beyond second base - but he just seems to know her. Like, Sansa knows herself but she's had plenty of practice, whereas Smalljon just immediately seems to sense what she likes  _like oh my gods that spot right there yes please gods yes gods Jon please yes yes yes_.

He's laughing now, smug and beautiful, and she tangles one hand in his thick, thick hair and the other around his cock, and that cuts his laughter  _right_ off.

" _Fuck,_ " he grits out, reaching blindly for the nightstand drawer (ever considerate, her Smalljon, always thinking about how negatively STIs and kids would affect their careers) and settling more firmly between her thighs before thinking better of it, pulling back, and ripping the condom open with his teeth.

"That shouldn't've have been hot," she says, feeling dreamy and blissed out and so turned on she can't think straight. "It so was, though."

"Regular mountain man, me," he huffs, rolling his eyes and rolling on the condom with her dubious help (her fingers feel clumsy, like she's spent too long on the outdoor rink back home, but she knows it's just because she's so soon after an orgasm).

He eases into her slowly, because, well, his nickname is absolutely ironic, but once he's in it's just one more level of bliss and all she can do is wrap herself around him and hold on tight.

One perk of being an Olympic athlete is stamina. One  _huge_ perk of  _dating_ an Olympic athlete is  _definitely_ stamina. And self-control.

He makes sure, just like he always does, that she comes again - magic fingers that she takes advantage of when they're not broken being put to excellent use - before he does, and he's quick to roll off her and deal with the messy business before climbing back into bed and pulling her into his arms again.

"Hey, Skates?"

"Yeah, Umber?"

"Could we maybe try your costume next time?"

_I love you_ is right there on the tip of Sansa's tongue, but she holds onto it for now. Next time. She'll tell him next time.


End file.
